


Names

by ashmeera101



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashmeera101/pseuds/ashmeera101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d been called many names since her father’s death. For one, Indra had faded into memory as the solitary mantle of Hawke took its place. Her father had been the only one that used her given name; her mother would call her dear, or darling, or a sigh and a shake of her head when she found her eldest curled up with a book past her bedtime. The twins would squeak sister when vying for her attention, clambering around her like the mabari when it wanted to be fed.</p><p>But Hawke was a weight on her shoulders, shackles on her wrists and legs as heavy as iron, chafing away what little freedom she had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Names

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening (if you're into that kind of thing): Oasis by A Great Big World

Hawke was curious, even as a child, wanting to learn the names of every plant and animal she came across. Often, she would bring things back home to her father, either fragile shoots or stray feathers, so that Malcolm would tell her what they were named and their purpose. Once her magic manifested, there was a lot more learning to be done; names of spells and breathing techniques and lore tugged from the precious tome that Malcolm had salvaged from his time at the Circle, one she had read from cover to cover and committed to memory before she had even turned twelve.

But Malcolm didn’t just teach her botany and arcane theory. After a long day of practicing, he would sit her on his lap and tell her stories about his youth, about his home in Ferelden by the sea, small but always filled with people. How his parents were Ferelden to their bones, but had enough Rivaini blood in them to gaze longingly at the ocean when the wind blew inland, carrying with it the tang of salt and promise of adventure.

She especially loved the stories about his Rivaini cousins that visited, docking at the nearby port in their colourful ships. They were years older than young Malcolm, but loved him as fiercely as they loved the sea. He remembered that they always smelled of salt and spices, and had hands covered in rings and voices that swayed and bobbed like the very ships they sailed. How they were bursting with stories of great sea monsters and overgrown islands, how they stumbled upon hidden treasures and swayed demons to fight by their side. His parents had scoffed at the tales, but he had hung onto every word, holding the stories close even as he had been taken to Kirkwall years later.

Her very name was a result of these stories.

 _Indra_ , her father would say, his voice taking on a lilt that tasted of seawater. There was an island in the Boeric Ocean, a tiny thing covered in palms and great, moss-covered statues with fierce faces. The Rivaini cousins would often dock here, for the spices were abundant and the people friendly and willing to trade cumin and cinnamon for good Antivan steel. Here, they would find out, the people worshiped a tall, kind-faced god, one that could call down lightning with just a wave of his fingers, ready to strike down those that cared to harm his disciples. _Indra,_ they would whisper with reverence. Herald of the Storm, protector of the innocent. 

Oh the coincidence, she would smile years later as she felt the electricity between her fingers, practically dancing in anticipation as she called it. Primal magic had come with such ease to her that it startled her father, only for him to laugh and ruffle her hair. _It was after all_ , he said, the smile still in his voice, _my own fault in naming you._ Malcolm himself was a skilled healer and not much more, so it was indeed a surprise that his equally mild-mannered child of eleven would come to master such a violent form of magic.

Bethany was named after her grandmother, the one she would never meet, the one that died just as she was born. Leandra had told them the news with a heaviness in her voice that Hawke had never heard before, the letter crumpled in her hands and her eyes distant. Malcolm had held her then, his hands threading through her hair as she wept. She wondered then, what it would be like to lose your parents, to have them taken away from you before you were ready. A terrible ache grew in her chest, and she quickly dismissed the thought, concerning herself with other matters befitting a child of five. 

Little did Hawke know that Bethany would join her namesake, her life wrenched from her painfully soon. Little did Hawke know that she too would lose both her parents, and that the ache would grow, clawing twisting tendrils around her heart.

Carver, she would learn years later, was named for a templar of all things. But not just a templar, but the very man that gave Malcolm his freedom, who defied the very tenets of his order to allow a man to escape and build a life with the woman he loved. Perhaps this is what Carver realized when she gave him their father’s letters, perhaps the decision to join the Order himself was made not just out of spite for not taking him into the Deep Roads. The freedom that his father had gained from the templar… could that possibly mean that the Order could give him the freedom from his sister’s shadow that he so utterly craved? 

And so there they were, the three that were now two, their names more than just a tangle of sounds and inflections, but tied to who they were. And she knew it was foolish, to read more into a name than what it was, but she was a fool, a sentimental fool that missed her father more than she was willing to say, so she would watch and listen and gather the names of those around her, storing them in her mind as she learned who they were.

She’d been called many names since her father’s death. For one, _Indra_ had faded into memory as the solitary mantle of Hawke took its place. Her father had been the only one that used her given name; her mother would call her _dear_ , or _darling_ , or a sigh and a shake of her head when she found her eldest curled up with a book past her bedtime. The twins would squeak _sister_ when vying for her attention, clambering around her like the mabari when it wanted to be fed.

But Hawke was a weight on her shoulders, shackles on her wrists and legs as heavy as iron, chafing away what little freedom she had. 

Later she would have other names. _Champion_ was the most obvious, the title born from blood and searing pain as she knelt in front of a dead Qunari, a hole leaking red onto the marble floor. It was the name that spread, the one that hid her mistakes, painted her as a noble savior of the weak, a tall, proud figure calling down lightning to smite her enemies.  

She could almost see her father’s smile.

There were others as well. _Basalit-an_ ; wrung from the Arishok like he could not believe the word himself, how he could have come to view a human as a worthy rival. The very name that would lead to his own downfall.

Then there was _apostate,_ whispered by those around her, even those who received her help. They placed coin in her hand with fearful eyes that never quite met hers, for the fear that the lightning she wielded would strike them down. They hurry away with sharp eyes and quiet words, leaving her kindness hollow in her chest, friends with the ache of loss. For these people still had the Chant in their blood, despite themselves, and who were they to disregard the Maker’s own words?

_Unbound, unshackled mages had turned the Golden City black with its sin._

She knew enough of the Chant to understand the fear, though it did not lessen the hollowness of her actions. There were times when she would ask herself if the reason she helped others was because she felt guilt over what her kind had done, as if attempting to repent for the sins of all wrongdoing mages.

 _There she goes again,_ she could hear Malcolm’s voice, _thinking of everybody but herself. Your stubbornness in putting others before yourself will be the death of you, Indra, if you do not learn to breathe._

But this pigheadedness, as Carver had often affectionately referred to it as, had led her to some of her closest friends.

Varric had sauntered into her life because she would not let Bartrand leave her out of the expedition, all flash and smoke as he wove his words into a flourish. The name Tethras carried weight in Kirkwall, what with the brothers being deshyrs of the Merchants Guild, and with the dwarf by her side, she could get into places she never really could as a Ferelden refugee. But then, under the words and waving hands, was a warmth she could not have imagined. She could never have known how he would become one of her closest friends, one of the very few in this world she could trust with her most precious thoughts. Tethras became Varric, gold rings and grand words became quiet nights at the Hanged Man, nursing tankards by the fire as they spoke of everything and nothing.

Aveline’s name was a contradiction in itself. Here you have the most Ferelden of warriors, from her stance to her leathers to the firm tone of her voice, and yet her name was distinctly Orlesian. She wore it with pride though, and Hawke would find out later that it too was because of a lost father, fiercely loved, and whose memory lived on in his daughter’s every breath.

Merrill was like a bird, twittering and fluttering, voice and hands and thoughts everywhere at once. Every conversation with her seemed as if Hawke had stepped into an aviary, attempting to catch at least one of the glittering creatures that surrounded her. Hawke liked that about her, enjoyed the fact that Merrill would constantly speak, filling the silence around the both of them, a silence that grew weighty on both sides. She knew the elf missed her clan, and would eventually find out later why they hated her so vehemently – how she was filled with anger and grief. But they never quite spoke about it after the initial confession, how she went right back into her chatter the next time Hawke visited. She knew all too well the weight of sorrow, and knew that Merrill would need her own time to accept it. The weight of a name she could no longer feel at home in, a name chained to a past she was no longer a part of.

_Indra, or Hawke?_

Word got to her that Isabela was from Rivain, which sparked all those childhood memories of Malcolm’s stories. They would bond over Isabela’s tales of the sea with Varric listening to the both of them intently, a pen constantly scratching over any spare sheet of parchment he could find. Both marveled at Hawke’s stories, couldn’t believe she had any Rivaini in her because well, she was Ferelden to the bone, from her furs to the mabari lying heavily across her feet. Isabela’s name was another that tasted of sea salt, of freedom and winds in white, billowing sails, and when she told the other woman this, Isabela had laughed and wrapped an arm around Hawke’s shoulders, squeezing tight. 

_That’s probably the loveliest thing anybody has said about me. You’re a dear, Hawke._

Anders was obvious, even without him mentioning it. Having run away from so much, the Circle in Ostwick, the Grey Wardens, to wear a name that reminded you of where you had come from was almost necessary, lest he forget who he was, what he stood for. It was light on the tongue, familiar enough that the people that took to his clinic called him like one would a dear brother or uncle. One that hid the burning, brimming energy under the skin, almost too tight over what his body actually contained. Sometimes, even Hawke wondered if it was Anders of Justice speaking, if it were even truly possible to separate the two anymore. But even in her moments of doubt, she would clasp her friend’s shoulder with a smile, call him by his name, and all would be well.

Then, there was _him._

His voice curled around the name, _mage_ , with a searing anger she could not understand, not then, because how could a village girl from Ferelden understand the pain of a Tevinter slave? She had watched him then, how his shoulders were proud, green eyes boring into hers, as if daring her to question his freedom, his outspoken hatred of his former master. And yet, she could see the fear beneath it all. A fear that people like her had seared into him, the wounds running deeper than the lyrium burned skin.

 _Fenris_ , he had said his name was, his smooth voice curling around the syllables like purring velvet. A name, she would learn later, was carved into him like the lyrium in his skin, given to him from blood and a smile with too many teeth, leering, watching, as he writhed against his bound limbs, screaming in pain.

She would only learn this months and years later, when she managed to ease the words out of him, under the cloak of night and the warmth of wine. He openly declared his suffering, and his hatred for his former master, again as if daring her to contradict, to declare as Anders would so often snarl, that not all mages were like that. But she kept silent, listening, waiting for him to finish.

 _Fenris._  

She knew no Tevene, but the sound of it sent something through her, white hot and alive. How it bore the weight of his former life ( _Danarius’ little wolf_ , he would rumble in disgust), and yet was bright and alive and so utterly present. How he cleaved himself a new beginning with nothing but his wits and his sword, running and running and running until he finally found a safe haven in Kirkwall. How it can’t have been easy to make a new life when all you have known is suffering and servitude.

It made her want to brush her fingers against the silver of his gauntlets.

No. Absolutely _not_. 

She chided herself on the cold walk back to her estate, fingers wrapped tightly around herself as if restraining her almost-deviant hands. You don’t know how he would have reacted, if he even likes you as a person, let alone…  
  
_“You_ like _him, don’t you?”_

Varric’s voice crackled around the edges like the fire they were sitting by, his lips curving into a knowing grin. She had tried denying it, but it was too obvious. She couldn’t ignore the way her heart leapt at the sight of him, threatening to escape through the narrow trappings of her ribcage. How even despite herself, her lips would curl into a smile at his greeting, no matter how morose his mood may be that day.

_Hawke._

His voice was curt and monotonous, and yet she would grip her staff tight at the sound of it. Her father had spoken about unknown magics in the world about them, unseen powers that made the world what it was. It was in the burning orange and gold of a setting sun, the swell of anticipation at the edge of a cliff, the sound of your name on a certain person’s tongue. Hawke had laughed at the last one, asking her father how that could be possible but he ruffled her hair with a knowing smile. 

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”  
  
And now, years and years later, in a dank and grimy alley in Lowtown, she finally understood.

The way Fenris said her name made the shackles loosen around her wrists, lessened the chafing around the skin. Whether he knew it or not, he softened the edges of the wrought iron of _Hawke_ , chipping away at the shell around it, leaving everything she was bare and exposed to the world. And as the years went by, as he learned that she was of no harm to him, that she would be the first to his side for anything, he too began to soften.

The curtness faded into something velvet, warm and deep, and Hawke would close her eyes and feel the ghost of fingers brush her cheek. He would be across the table, at the other side of the room even, and yet those two syllables would speak more than he ever could. His hair was constantly over his eyes, and he knew to keep to the shadows, lest she read his expression, but she had caught sight of him looking at her once.

Tentative, that was the first word that came to mind, his eyes were tentative, as if he were cautiously treading around something he wasn’t sure about. But beyond that, there was something in his eyes that burned, something that sent a tingle down her spine that had nothing to do with primal magic. But as soon as he realized she had caught him staring, he turned away quickly, gauntlet-clad hands scraping against each other as a deep crimson crept up his neck.

_You don’t see it, but he’s in too deep as well. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always the first to your side if you’re hurt, the last to stop fighting if you’ve gone down. And Maker, the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody’s watching. He’d walk right back into the Imperium for you, even if it means risking his freedom._

Varric wasn’t a storyteller for nothing. He’d noticed, and Hawke was sure her other friends had as well. And despite their reassurances that Fenris definitely felt the same way, it wasn’t until she had caught his eye that day that made her confident enough to take a step forward. 

A step? More like a whirlwind.

The night at her mansion, of his lips burning fire against hers as she pulled him towards her bed, to the cold silence of the morning, of his hollow, broken words as he left, without a backwards glance. Everything happened so quickly, how could she have been filled with such warmth and heat, and then filled with ice almost a moment later?

She could have called him many names then, dark and bitter things that swirled in her mind like hornets when she was alone. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Because she knew why he left. The anger and revenge that lived in his ribcage, that poisoned every shard of happiness that came into his life. He needed to face his past, smite his demons before he could ever truly be at peace, lest he spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder, fearing the return of his master. Not to mention the memories that had returned _screaming_ to the front of his mind, tormenting him with fragments of a life he never thought he would remember.

Who was he? The slave or the free man? The hunted or the hunter?

_Fenris or Leto?_

Of course he could not be with her, with all these questions following him, like a pack of hungry wolves, pacing and circling and watching. It came with his name, with his past, tied together so intricately. How could she expect him to be there for her when he had so much to deal with?

But when Danarius lay at his feet all those years later, blood pooling on the floor from the hole in his chest, Fenris had turned to _her_ first, the anger and fear and pain ripe in the green of his eyes. He was drawn to her even now, when he had finally broken free of the shackles of his own past, of his own heavy soul, and yet, his eyes searched for the one person that made sense in the chaos.

Because despite everything, he had made a promise to her.

The red cloth around his wrist, tied tight around the silver of his gauntlet. It was hers, she realized sharply the first time she caught sight of it, a stray strip of fabric she used to tie her hair up. How he came across it she didn’t know, but the fact that he had kept it, worn it where it would be seen by all (Varric and Isabela teased him about it when they thought she wasn’t listening), lessened the ache in her chest. The red cloth screamed when he was otherwise silent, and its message was clear.

_I am yours._

She felt the words on his lips as he kissed her that night, fingers tangled in her hair like they belonged, and _oh_ they did. Now that his master was dead, he was free to do as he wished without fear, and the first thing he had done was to kiss her, bury his face in her hair, wrapped himself around her so tight as if afraid she would leave him as he had left her.

As if she would ever leave him.

Even when she was angry at him, bitter and alone and too wrapped up in herself to understand the reasons for him leaving, she would not entertain the thought of forgetting him. She could have moved on and found another that would care for her in ways he could not. But she couldn’t.

Because she was his. From the moment he spoke her name in a Lowtown alley, when she caught him watching her with those quiet, tender eyes, she had felt that tug in her chest. An ache that burned bright when they were together. She was his completely and utterly, and now that Danarius was dead, he was free to be hers.

 _He was Fenris and she was Hawke_ , Varric would write much later, in a book that would reach all corners of Thedas. _And you couldn’t have one without the other._

*

Many, many years later, another name would emerge. It was born on a quiet night, under the warmth of too many blankets and a familiar body against hers, fingers tracing gentle lines against her skin.

 _Love._ The name whispered against her neck, fierce and unyielding. Her fingers would tighten into fists when he first spoke it, overwhelmed by the ache in her chest. How it once would have signaled the pain of loss, but now held a different meaning altogether. _Love_ , he whispered again as he tugged her close, pressed his lips to the angle of her jaw, the word gentler now, as if a prayer, a soft thing that had to be protected.

It was not a surprise to her. She had heard it every time he spoke her name, every time he looked at her with soft eyes, every brush of his fingers against hers, every swing of his blade in battle. But she smiled as his lips found hers, losing herself completely in the word, the feeling in her chest too bright to bear.

_Love._

That was the name she held closest to her heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this for the better part of four months now. Having poured so much of myself into this fic, it feels like the end of an era to actually post this, to share it with the world. 
> 
> My Hawke and Fenris mean the world to me. I hope it shows in this fic.


End file.
